Absolution
by grumkinsnark
Summary: "You are saved, Sam. In everyone's eyes but your own. You need to find the will to forgive yourself." "I can't. I don't deserve it. And Dean's better off. He is." 5.22 coda.


This was written as a birthday present for **liliaeth** on LJ, whose birthday was two days ago. Me being me, I was late in writing/sending this. But better late than never has always been my philosophy. Anyways. Moving on.

* * *

**Absolution**

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* * *

**

Sam figured out the difference between believing that there's a God, and believing _in_ one a long time ago. He figured out the difference between blind faith, and faith that's earned not all that long ago. He figured out that the pain from bullet wounds, knife cuts, broken bones, and choking that he'd experienced in his lifetime was like riding on clouds compared to what Hell had dished out quite recently.

What he has yet to figure out is what to do from here. He stands underneath the blown-out streetlight, gazing in through Lisa Braeden's window—now Lisa Braeden and Dean Winchester's window—like he has every night since _that one_. Watching, waiting, waiting to see whether anyone would look up and see him. Whether anyone would care.

He's imagined it a million times in his head, imagined it going one of three ways.

Lisa would start to clear the table, then the moonlight would glance off a button on Sam's jacket, catching her eye. She'd shriek, drop the plates she was holding, sending their contents careening to the floor, glass shattering and skidding in every direction. Ben would startle, then Dean would command him to stay put—"There's glass, Ben, watch out."—then go over to Lisa, arm around her, asking what's the matter. She'd point out the window, then Dean would go over, cup his hands against it, and look outside. He'd see nothing, because Sam will have vanished from sight. He wouldn't be ready. Not yet.

Ben would be outside, shooting baskets in his eight-foot-high hoop, dusk leaving the flimsy porch light to do all the work. The ball would hit the rim of the hoop at an odd angle, and bank it out into the street. Ben would jog out to get it, then, as he stood up, would catch sight of Sam's long shadow. Jolting, he'd look to where it was, ready to yell for Dean or Mom, but Sam would be gone. He wouldn't be ready. Not yet.

And Dean.

Well, Sam's not entirely sure what Dean would do. Maybe drop plates like Lisa had, maybe just stare in shock, maybe try to shoot him full of rock salt, maybe rub his eyes like he's hallucinating, maybe…Sam doesn't know. Moreover, Sam's not sure what _he_ would do. Would he stay? Show Dean he's not hallucinating, but run the risk of being shot (or worse)? Would he vanish? Make Dean break down again just when he'd been doing so well? (For, it had taken weeks for Dean to have a night where he didn't cry his eyes out, where Lisa didn't have to stay up all hours to calm him down. It had taken weeks for the bags under their eyes to disappear and Dean to genuinely smile when Ben hit a home run.)

Sam just _doesn't know_.

As if all that weren't enough, Sam can still feel his veins buzzing with withdrawal, feel sweat drench his skin, has had to handcuff himself to a chair (or railing, or bench, or anything sturdy and close by) to hold himself in place while he rode out the seizures. If he'd thought last time he went through withdrawal was bad… Last time, he'd only been addicted to Ruby's blood; and while she was a powerful enough demon, she was pretty low-key as far as blood toxicity (or, as Lucifer would call it, blood nutrition) went. And it wasn't just the gallons of blood that he'd swallowed. It was the fact that he'd been _possessed_ by _Lucifer_. Who, while technically an angel, infused his cells with more demonic dependence than even Cas had anticipated.

He was brought back from Hell—how, he's still not quite sure—but, unlike Dean, not to his pre-Hell self. Unlike Dean, he still has all the scars and the cracking shoulder from all the dislocations; unlike Dean had at first, he still feels the heat on his skin, feels his skin sizzle and bubble; unlike Dean had at first, he still _remembers_. Remembers _everything_. He wonders if it was Lucifer's doing, or maybe God or someone else ethereal feels he still needs to suffer for what he's done, fuck if he knows. _Worse still_, even a double dose of aspirin coupled with a double shot of vodka didn't erase anything. Didn't do _anything_ except maybe make his vision a little blurry.

Sam's thoughts these days tend to contain only a few words: Dean. Lucifer. Hell. Michael. Adam. Lisa. Pain. _FUCK_.

He's been so wrapped up in his thoughts he hadn't noticed that he himself had someone watching him, someone cataloguing his every expression, every sag in his shoulders, every agonizing cogitation.

After the darkness would lose its hold upon the Indiana landscape and the Sun would conquer, its faint blue rays kissing the streets, Sam would walk down the path, casting a last glance at Lisa's modest but kept home, and find himself sitting down against a tree. He hadn't really noticed that the tree was in perfect view of a stained glass window of the local church, primarily because he would just sit there, staring at the ground, ripping up pieces of grass in his hands. Thinking. Brooding, Dean would say.

So it comes as a complete surprise when, one day, Sam feels a tap on his shoulder. He jumps, takes only the briefest of moments to feel berate himself for doing so (when exactly had he become so spastic?), and then looks up. He's no less than astonished to see a man, mid-fifties if he had to guess, gowned in black with a white square peeking out from his collar. A priest. It's then Sam sees the window, and the wooden cross high up on the church, and puts it together.

"Oh," he says eloquently, rubbing the back of his neck. The sky suddenly feels oppressing, the air a little thicker, and he hopes he's imagining the clouds darkening as if to send a strike of lightning to the man who not only started the Apocalypse, but said yes to the Devil.

"Son," says the priest, a kind but understated smile on his face, "My name is Father Smythe. I've seen you come here, sit against this same tree, for some time now. Is there something I can perhaps help you with? You look troubled."

_No shit, Sherlock_, Sam wants to say. He doesn't, however, getting the sense that that probably wouldn't be the wisest of phrases to say to this particular man. Plus, that lightning strike thing.

"Sam," Sam says. "And I'm…maybe. A little. I guess."

He's aware that he should trust a _priest_ of all people, but honestly, he's really not up for talking to anyone. Let alone some supposed preacher of God's work who doesn't know anything about what Hell or Heaven or angels or _God_ is truly like. Sam would very much like to pass on the Pearly Gates shit. Raging inferno of Hell is accurate enough, but all the rest? Maybe once upon a time Sam believed it was all candy and a huge-ass library, but now? Not so much.

"Well," says Father Smythe, seeing Sam's discomfort, "I won't make you. But if you ever feel like talking, even just a word or two, I'm here for you."

Sam barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. "I appreciate that," he forces out, "but I'm not much for sermons. I…I don't even know what I believe anymore."

The priest nods in understanding. "I see," he says softly.

He can read Sam's face so well it hurts, read the raw, pure _anguish_ in his soul, but Sam's not some prisoner (besides perhaps in his own mind). He can't drag Sam into the confessional kicking and screaming. Even if Sam weren't, Father Smythe notes, six-foot-_something_ and a good forty pounds of muscle heavier.

With the same kind smile, he pats Sam's shoulder once more. "Any time," he emphasizes, seeing in Sam the strongest desire to be absolved from something monumental he's ever witnessed. Sure, he's heard a lot in the confessional, but he has a feeling in his gut that if Sam were to divulge his innermost thoughts, Father Smythe would actually have to take a moment or a thousand before he'd have any idea what to say.

Not that he simply goes through the motions with his parishioners, but given the rapid rise in sins—adultery, breaking marriage vows, theft, prostitution, lust, those only Christmas- and Easter-goers, lying, a gigantic melting pot of so much else—he's felt his duty is somewhat compromised. The purpose of absolving people of their sins is to help them become better people. But week after week, he hears the same communicants confess to the same sins, and he wonders if maybe he's doing it wrong, or…well, while he won't admit it even in prayer, sometimes he…he has his doubts.

He wonders why God would have His children not learn from their mistakes, permit them to keep misstepping over and over and over again, teaching them that ultimately it's okay to commit adultery and theft and lies, because you can just go to confession and presto. Your soul is safe once more. He has faith—goes with the collar—but there are times when it's strained.

And then he sees people like Sam. (No, he amends, not quite like Sam, for Sam is by and large the most troubled he's seen in his lengthy tenure.) Those who have chest-sucking tribulations, head-searing guilt, heart-ripping suffering. It's people like Sam who make him trust in his duties again, like maybe if he can help them just a little, the world would be the tiniest bit better.

Of course, it's they who must take the final step, open the heavy doors to the church and find the confessional. Most importantly, find the ability within to forgive themselves. Because if there's one thing Father Smythe has learned over the years, it's that confession isn't so much God or God's mouthpieces that saves a person's soul. It's that person's willingness to come to terms with what they've done—or, in rare cases, simply what they _think_ they've done—and absolve themselves.

He considers parting with Sam with the usual "May the Lord be with you," but thinks that it wouldn't be the best thing to impart right now. He's looking at a man, a boy, who's one breakdown away from collapsing in on himself like a dying star, and though to most that farewell would be a non-issue, he thinks Sam would go against the grain on that one.

So instead, he says a quiet, "Hang in there, Sam," and, trying not to show on his face the despair he sees in Sam's, turns to walk back into the church. He hears Sam softly sigh, and wishes there were more he could do, but knows it's up to Sam.

* * *

Sam stands by the lamppost as he's done every night, peers through the mist into Lisa's house. She's tossing together a salad, looking over into the living room every so often and smiling. Sam takes a few steps closer and to the right, the new position allowing him to see into the room. Dean and Ben are seated on the couch, Ben practically bouncing up and down in excitement as he throws in a DVD. It takes Sam a minute, but then he recognizes the opening as _Slap Shot_. He's surprised that Lisa would let her son watch it, but then, when it gets to the first very non-PG portion of the film, Lisa pauses dinner, walks into the room, and places her hands over Ben's eyes.

He's also surprised Ben's psyched about hockey _now_, since even he knows the season doesn't start until fall, but figures maybe he's just overeager. He doesn't know anything about Indiana hockey, but wagers they've got an arena or two, and, well, Sam thinks Ben's probably cut out for the sport.

Ben scrabbles at his mother's hands to get them off, but Dean chuckles and ribs him with something Sam can't hear. Sam feels a sharp, throbbing pain in his chest that he doesn't want to acknowledge is longing. Not just that he's not with his brother like he's been since he was born, but that his brother is moving on. Sam knows that Dean would never _forget_ him, but seeing the undiluted domesticity, the proverbial family-of-three, Disney-cruise-winning, aww-they're-so-cute passersby reactions, hurts him as badly as a knife to the stomach.

Sam stands there while they put the movie on hold to eat, then go to watch the rest of it while Lisa cleans up. He stands there while Ben brings out a hockey stick and puck, and pretend-skates along the hardwood floor, shooting the puck and missing the goal made up of two chairs.

It isn't like Sam or Dean had ever exactly played hockey, but given that it's just about the most masculine sport out there, Dean is unsurprisingly adept at it, Sam observes. He corrects Ben's stance and grip on the stick (Dean's knowledge coming only from, Sam knows, movies like _Slap Shot_ and attending that one Nordiques-Devils game back in '94 that Dean had snuck them into while John was away on a job), then steps back and watches as Ben scores.

He high-fives him and grins, the grin reaching his eyes, the grin one Sam hasn't seen for years and years. The pain in his chest flares worse than before, and Sam faintly ponders if it's something he should get checked out. His manly pride side would rather that than the true answer of him aching for that life his brother now has, so he stows away all branches of that thinking, stores it away in a box deep in his brain and seals it with duct tape. Gorilla Tape.

When he sees Dean and Lisa head upstairs after putting Ben to bed, the knife in his heart gouging deeper and deeper, he decides he can't take it anymore. It's barely one in the morning, but he can't take it anymore.

Shunning the lamplight, he walks down the street with his hands in his pockets, feeling smaller than he has in a long time. Feeling like he imagines Dean did when he bailed for Stanford.

He hadn't meant to really, but he's not shocked to find himself leaning against the tree across from the church, staring at the unassuming wood building with the gleaming stained glass. He's not sure how long he stays there, just knows that when he comes out of his funk, the moon is not where it used to be.

Biting his lip, Sam takes strides toward the church, his feet seemingly working of their own accord. He hesitates before putting his hand on the door handle, as if waiting for that lightning to strike, but it doesn't. Maybe an extra cricket chirps, but the sky is as clear as ever. There are no snarling gargoyles, no thunderclaps, no anything out of the ordinary.

He shakes his head and enters. The ceilings are higher than he'd pictured, old but ornately frescoed. He's not completely sure what scenes the stained glass windows are supposed to depict, but the faint bubbling of the glass and the bright colors are beautiful nonetheless. There's a grand altar down the aisle, the table covered in a pristine white cloth, lit candles illuminating the large, gold cross behind them.

Sam feels the blood in his veins buzzing again, like the demonic taint of them is writhing against being on holy ground, being in a house of God. He walks further in, his boots echoing off the marble, his hand idly brushing the pews. There's no one but him inside, making the church appear that much larger and more intimidating. Sam knows churches are in theory the least intimidating of structures anywhere, but he still feels as though he shouldn't be here.

In fact, he starts to turn around and leave when a voice breaks through the musty air. "Sam?" it calls.

Sam winces, but faces the voice, who he now recognizes as belonging to Father Smythe. He says nothing, just buries his fists deeper into his pockets and stares.

"Are you…?" Father Smythe starts to ask, but stops himself before he can finish the question. Although it was pure reflex, Sam's positively the farthest thing from _all right_. "Come, come," he says instead. "I don't bite."

The indecision is plain on Sam's young but weathered face, but after what seems like hours, he sets his mouth and walks forward, slowly closing the distance between himself and the priest. Gently, Father Smythe guides Sam to sit on the furthermost pew, then takes a seat beside him.

"You said, um…that…" Sam tries, energy to even just speak not very successfully coming forth.

"Yes, of course," answers Father Smythe compassionately.

He'd been just getting to sleep when he'd heard the doors creak open, and Sam was the person he'd least expected to see inside his church—after all, Sam had not only looked like the mere concept of setting foot in such a place was horrendous, but it'd been two weeks since they'd spoken—but he'd meant every word when he said Sam was welcome at any time.

He waits for a few moments, but when Sam makes no move to start talking again, the priest prompts, "Sam? Is…is there something you'd like to confess? Or talk about?"

Sam flinches at the word "confess," and looks up at the priest with solemn eyes. "I don't even know why I'm here," he says. "You wouldn't believe me even if I told you the truth. And last I heard, you're not supposed to lie inside a church."

Father Smythe decides not to mention that you're not supposed to lie _anywhere_, acknowledging that that's far from the matter at hand. "It is not in my power to judge, Sam," he replies. "I am here merely to listen, and to absolve you of any sins you feel you have committed."

Sam scoffs. "You wouldn't believe me," he repeats. "Someone's cheated on their wife, someone's shoplifted, someone's _murdered_, fine. But you wouldn't believe _me_."

"Well, as I said, I cannot force you to say anything," says Father Smythe slowly. "But you came into my church tonight for a reason, and I think we both know what that is." The priest considers for a second, and then continues, "If you'll let me, Sam, I would like to help you. Truly."

Sam closes his eyes and runs his hands first over his face, then through his hair, mussing it more than it already was. Father Smythe fights the urge to pull Sam into a hug, because, despite his size and bristled exterior, he looks all of seven years old.

"Dean would call me a pansy for doing this," Sam whispers.

Father Smythe hasn't the faintest who "Dean" is, but he doesn't ask. He'd learned long ago that it's best to not interrupt, even if he's completely lost and doesn't have any idea about whom a parishioner is talking.

"Dean, he, uh…he doesn't…he doesn't know I'm alive," says Sam, in that same broken whisper. "Doesn't know I'm back."

Father Smythe frowns. "Back from…where?" he asks tentatively.

Sam doesn't look up, but Father Smythe sees his back tighten. But then, as if deciding that he's already all but taken the final plunge, sighs. "From Hell."

Even Father Smythe feels the change in atmosphere at Sam's words, and wishes he didn't. "Hell," repeats the priest. "As in…?"

"As in Hell, damn it!" Sam explodes, not giving a shit that he's in a church and swearing tends to be a no-no. "Fire, brimstone, demons carving you inside and out, _Hell_! Christ…"

Father Smythe didn't react to any of Sam's church-tabooed words; he's heard worse (albeit not with the same unadulterated _pain_ behind them), and he has a feeling _no_ words in any language could properly express whatever's clawing at Sam's core. He watches as Sam falls apart right before his eyes, and he's never wanted Heavenly strength more than in this moment. Sam's hardly said three sentences, and yet Father Smythe thinks that if there's anyone worthy of God's assistance, it's him.

"What did you do to deserve Hell, Sam?" Father Smythe asks. He's not exactly certain he believes Sam (despite what he'd promised), because there's preaching about Hell, and then there's _Hell_. It's obvious _Sam_ believes he went there, which is the reason Father Smythe is going along with it, but…well, he vows to keep an open mind. It's the least he can do.

Sam's words come out choked. "I…I set Lucifer free," he says. "And then I agreed to be his meat puppet while he beat Dean nearly to death."

Father Smythe nods slowly—very slowly. He's trying harder than he ever has to keep his calm, to not wonder about the sanity of the boy next to him. He believes in Heaven and Hell, to be sure, but…even the figures in the Bible didn't purportedly act how Sam is. They took something beneficial from their otherworldly experiences; Sam, conversely, looks worse than a war veteran.

"And…where is Lucifer now?" asks Father Smythe, telling himself yet again that he's _helping_ Sam. Not indulging psychosis. "If you're back, surely…?"

"He's in Hell," Sam says so mutedly that Father Smythe wouldn't have heard him if it weren't for the church's acoustics. "I took control of my body for a second and jumped in the hole to Hell. He stayed there, got put back in his box, and somehow I got out. I don't know how."

In spite of himself, Father Smythe's emotion changes from cautious am-I-talking-to-someone-mentally-unstable to awe. "You defeated Lucifer," he clarifies, once more trying to ignore the absurdity of the conversation. "You bested the Devil?"

Sam turns shiny eyes upon the priest, denial at the forefront. "No," he objects. "I let him loose in the first place. I haven't even begun to redeem myself."

"Sam," says Father Smythe kindly, "I won't pretend to intimately know your situation, but if you did anything like what you say, you _are_ redeemed. In my eyes and in God's."

"You don't know what God's like or what He's thinking," Sam spits, reflecting not just Raphael's absent father speech, but Lucifer, Michael, Gabriel, and Joshua's as well. About how God may be alive and kicking, but simply doesn't give a fuck. "You have no idea."

Father Smythe permits this. "No, I suppose you're right," he says. "I don't know what God is thinking. But from everything I have learned of those who have met Him, everything I've read from those people, and from what I feel inside, I cannot imagine that our God or any would require you to further prove your desire for redemption. I think it is only you, Sam, who must forgive you."

Sam snorts. "I don't deserve forgiveness, from myself or anyone," he says. "Not after everything I've done, everyone I've hurt."

"And your brother? You think you have hurt him beyond redemption, too?" asks Father Smythe, deducing that, from the way Sam had talked about Dean, they had to be brothers.

Sam snaps his eyes over to Father Smythe's, fire in them. "I was trying to give him a normal life," Sam answers hotly. "I wasn't able to hack a normal life of my own, and after everything, Dean's past owed it. I wasn't gonna go to Hell without making sure he was going to be okay."

"And is he?" inquires the priest. "Are you sure he's better off without you? Especially now that you're…back? I'm not sure it's best to not tell him you're here, Sam. I think he'd want to know that his brother isn't dead and gone."

"He has to be," Sam replies. "He's got Lisa, and Ben, he's a frickin' baseball dad. That's what I wanted for him. And I'm not going to mess that up."

"You're well-meaning, Sam, you are," says Father Smythe, "but I've got a brother of my own. And I know that, without a doubt, if he had died and gotten a second chance, I'd want to know about it. Even if it did mean 'messing up' my normal life. I don't presume to know you or your brother, but…trust me, son. He'd want to know."

Sam finds the marble floor again, his hair hiding his eyes. "He's not going to look at me the same," he murmurs, Adam's apple bobbing. "He's not."

Father Smythe nods again, placing a hand gently between Sam's shoulder blades. "Perhaps not at first," he replies, "but I think that knowing his brother sacrificed himself for the world _and_ put Satan back in his cage is a heck of a thing to be proud of."

"But the things I did…"

"Are forgivable," Father Smythe intercedes. "Are understandable. In the Lord's eyes—in what I infer to be the Lord's eyes—you are saved, Sam. In _everyone's_ eyes but your own. You need to find the will to forgive yourself."

"I can't," Sam protests. "I don't deserve it. And Dean's better off. He is."

Father Smythe chuckles. "I think that's something Dean would like to decide for himself."

Sam glances up again. "What?"

"Knock, Sam," says Father Smythe with a small smile. "Knock. If he turns you away, I'll still be here, and you can hit me or curse me all you like. But I have a feeling he'll do no such thing."

Sam's vision strays to nothing focused.

"There's an extra bed," Father Smythe suggests. "Why don't you rest for tonight, go on over in the morning. My wife, Helen, makes excellent eggs and bacon, and she'd be more than pleased to make some extra."

Shaking his head, Sam coarsely scrapes his fingers through his hair. "No, I—I can't," he answers. "I—thank you, but I can't."

"Well, the offer stands," Father Smythe says. "And the bed is there for whenever, if ever, you need it."

Sam doesn't meet his gaze as he slowly stands, his long limbs appearing as though they'd really rather not cooperate. Shoulders hunched, he walks down the aisle and hefts open the doors, the sound of the thick wood hitting its frame reverberating throughout the church.

Father Smythe exhales. Were he a betting man, he wouldn't know whether to stake the farm or not on Sam knocking on Dean's door. Usually, he can tell if what he's said has gotten through to people, but with Sam he has no clue. He sensed that Sam had at least _heard_ him, but if Sam had actually absorbed it is another question entirely.

Truth be, Father Smythe still isn't sure he believes Sam. Oh, he'd like to, and Sam had certainly manifested as legitimate in his claims of going to Hell, returning from there, about saying yes to the Devil, everything. Father Smythe has faith, he _does_, and with all his being, he'd like to have faith in Sam. He's just not sure. Not yet.

But it's all immaterial, as far as he's concerned. It wasn't Sam having difficulty accepting or rejecting that he'd gone to Hell or conversed with Lucifer that was the issue. It was whether his absence from his brother, whom he'd apparently told to live a normal life—whatever that meant—should be rectified. Whether Sam should show his brother that he is, in fact, alive.

Father Smythe doesn't know in the slightest what Sam will do, or what's going on in Sam's psyche, and he sincerely doubts he'll ever see Sam at mass (though he does hold onto a miniscule hope that he will see Sam again somewhere, sometime), he'll admit that much. But as he heads off to bed, deflects Helen's queries—for while Sam wasn't technically at confession, Father Smythe treats it as such—says his prayers again, he puts in an auxiliary one for Sam. For the man who clearly is at war inside his own head, a scary place to begin with, and who on top of that worries about others.

"Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name," Father Smythe whispers into the dark, hands folded, "Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, the glory, for ever and ever. Amen."

He pauses, looks down at his hands for a moment and then passes his eyes back up to the ceiling.

"And, Lord, I ask You to send courage and absolution to Sam. For never in my life have I seen a boy who needs Your love more than he. Please…lessen the weight, the guilt, upon his heart. Amen."

* * *

It's late, the streets filled with the silence that only the blackest and fullest of nights brings, and Sam feels more like he's heading towards another torture session in Hell than anything else. The rows of houses are familiar, he'd passed them enough times, and finally he stops under the streetlamp that he'd grown so attached to.

The lights in the Braeden home are out, and all Sam can see in the window is the reflection of the foliage across the street, but he imagines Ben conked out in his bed up on the second floor, Dean and Lisa sleeping soundly in her bed down the hall.

As if pushed by an invisible force, Sam feels himself walking toward the house, the occasional leaf skittering by in a light breeze. He stops in front of the door, as though the door itself is judging him. The blood in his veins simmers, the air around him feels static, electrified, and he wonders if there's a storm coming.

He feels his hand form into a fist, then hears himself rap his knuckles firmly on the door.

At first he thinks no one had heard, but then the front light turns on and the door opens. It's Lisa, her hair tied back and a robe pulled around her, expression clearly showing that she'd been resting peacefully and was rudely awakened.

It vanishes, however, when she sees who'd knocked. "S-S-_Sam_?" she gasps, gripping onto the doorframe tightly. "It's—you—_Sam_? B-But…"

Sam begins to reply, but then hears heavier footfalls come down the stairs and pad across the hardwood. "Lisa, what's—?" Dean starts, coming up behind her. His face falls slack, his and Lisa's identical, as he gapes at his brother.

"Hey…Dean."


End file.
